Page 132 of Pregnant in Plaid
Or maybe I'm just too tired to be scared anymore.
Either way, tomorrow, we're taking our baby home.
Epilogue - Trace
Trace
Six months later
Brooklyn makes a sound that's half-giggle, half-pterodactyl shriek, and launches a fistful of mashed sweet potato directly at my face.
It hits me square in the left eye.
"Good arm," Patrice observes from her spot at the kitchen table, where she's supposedly working but is actually watching this disaster unfold with barely concealed amusement. "She's got your aim."
I wipe orange goo off my face with a dish towel that's already covered in approximately seventeen other food substances. "She's got your determination. And your timing. She waited until I looked away."
"Strategic."
"Diabolical."
Brooklyn, strapped into her high chair like a tiny orange-covered dictator, grins at me with exactly two teeth and makes grabby hands for the spoon. Her hair—dark like mine, curly like Patrice's—sticks up in every direction. She's wearing a bib that says "I'm the boss" which Tessa bought as a joke but has turned out to be disturbingly accurate.
"More?" I ask, loading up the spoon with sweet potato.
She opens her mouth like a baby bird, accepts exactly one bite, then immediately spits it back out onto the tray. The sound effects alone are impressive.
"Why do we even try?" I ask.
"Because the pediatrician said she needs vegetables," Patrice says, not looking up from her laptop. "And because we're optimists who believe that someday she'll actually swallow food instead of wearing it."
"That day is not today."
"That day is never today."
Brooklyn bangs both hands on her high chair tray, which is apparently the signal that mealtime is over and she's ready to move on to her next reign of terror. I wipe her face—she tries to eat the washcloth—and lift her out of the chair.
She's six months old, fifteen pounds ofpure chaos, and has somehow become the center of my entire universe.
"I'm going to change her," I announce.
"You changed her last time," Patrice says.
"I change her every time. You have conference calls."
"I had one conference call this week."
"One very important conference call that kept you busy for approximately forty-five minutes during which Brooklyn and I bonded over diaper cream and the philosophical question of why babies find their own feet so fascinating."
Patrice finally looks up from her laptop, grinning. "Are you complaining about diaper duty?"
"I'm bragging about diaper duty. I'm an expert now. I could teach a class. 'Advanced Diaper Changing for Babies Who Won't Stay Still.'"
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm a father. It's the same thing."
I carry Brooklyn to the changing table—the one Gage and I eventually assembled correctly on our third attempt—and somehow manage to get her changed despite her newfound ability to roll over mid-wipe. She thinks it's a game. I think it's a test of my patience and reflexes.
